


Incendiary Devices

by hikotevettvtkhnyqvlvr



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, featuring beau's daddy issues, things get a little dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-11-04 20:51:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17905406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikotevettvtkhnyqvlvr/pseuds/hikotevettvtkhnyqvlvr
Summary: Beauregard Lionett was not used to things turning out well. Being married off to a mysterious Zemnian nobleman, infamously nicknamed "The Madman of Blumenthal Manor", and sent to live with him at his frigid northern estate all before her twenty-third name day was simply an instance in point.Set in a reimagined version of Wildemount (heavily influenced by the world of ASoIaF), follow the newly titled Baroness of Blumenthal as she navigates complicated sociopolitical dynamics, struggles to maintain her identity and autonomy, and uncovers secrets about her husband and the world that surrounds them that could cause the Empire itself to go up in smoke.





	1. any lawful impediment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do as they bid you… but in your heart, remember who and what you are.” ― George R.R. Martin, A Clash of Kings

Beauregard Lionett was not used to things turning out well. 

But while she waited with uncharacteristic patience as her lady’s maid cinched her into her wedding dress, she was fairly certain that things could not get much worse.  

“You know, I’ve heard he’s a really good dancer.” Jester chirped, pulling the laces of the corset impossibly tighter around Beau’s chest. “So at least he won’t step on your toes or anything, which is like, super important.”

“I don’t think they’re gonna make us have a first dance, Jessie.” Beau said, staring at the large mirror that had been placed on the opposite side of her bed chamber. Her reflection looked like it was going to be sick. “The ceremony is basically a formality. Besides, they want me at Blumenthal Manor by nightfall, so the whole thing’s gonna be, like, as short as possible.”

Jester gave a small, noncommittal hum and began rifling through a jewelry box.

“Hey,” Beau said, turning away from the somber young woman in the mirror to address her lady in waiting. “I’m glad you’re coming with me. I don’t think I could get through this shit without you.”

“Of course, Beau.” Jester said with a little smile. “That’s just what friends do.” 

That was all either of them had to say, because both understood. It was Jester who was there three months ago when Beau’s parents had told her the news, and Jester who watched as she screamed and cried and kicked things, and Jester who had comforted her when she was just too damn exhausted to keep putting up a fight. 

“Besides,” Jester continued, pulling a chunky, jade necklace from the wooden chest. “I really don’t mind the cold. Zemni Fields is probably really beautiful in the snow.”

Beau tried to send a weak smile back, but the muscles of her face felt frozen in place. Instead, she turned back around and held up her hair as Jester fastened the necklace around her neck. The beads felt cold and heavy against her collarbone. 

“They match my earrings.” Beau commented lamely, tracing the thin lines of gold that appeared to be embedded in the pale green stone. “And the bracelets.”

She suddenly felt a pair of arms wrap around her waist. 

“It’s going to be okay, Beau, I promise.” Jester told her, standing on her tiptoes to rest her chin on her shoulder. Before Beau could interject Jester added, “I know you’re really scared-- You don’t have say it out loud or anything because I know that’s hard for you-- But I want you to know that it’s okay to be scared sometimes. And we have each other, and that’s what’s important. So you maybe can be a little less scared, maybe.”

It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen this coming. As soon as she could walk, her parents had trained her to carry the family name. She was given the finest tutors, taught all the ins and outs of the family business, and even when she was sent away for causing too much trouble, attended the seminary education program at The Archive of the Cobalt Soul in Zadash to continue her studies at an institution second only to the Soltryce Academy. However, everything changed when her lady mother became pregnant. After that, Lord and Lady Lionett had her pulled from school, shipped back to Kamordah, and sold off to the first halfway decent bachelor like a lamb to the slaughter. The past three months had been all waiting in anxious suspense for the betrothal to be arranged, then for marriage to be arranged, then finally for today. And Beau had rebelled as she always: staying out later, drinking more, even going as far as to bed women under her parents roof with none of the secrecy she once felt beholden too. Despite all her rebellion, Beau was in her own way, resigned to her fate. After all, high born daughters had two choices when they came of age, marriage or a monastery, and only one of them could ensure a rise in their family’s social standing.  

Still, she could not prepare herself for deep sense of dread that had been growing in the pit of her stomach since Jester had shaken her awake at the crack of dawn to get ready. 

Beau pulled Jester’s hands more securely around her midsection and gave them a little squeeze. “I know,” she said softly, “Love you, Jess.”

“Love you too.” Jester replied, before abruptly pulling away and slipping right back into her chipper demeanor. “Now, time for makeup! I’m like,  _ really _ good at it, I swear.”

For the next hour and a half, Jester carefully dusted kohl and rouge on Beau’s face, giggling and balancing on the arms of a chair so she didn’t crease her wedding dress, and Beau stood as still as possible, trying to glean as much carefree, girlhood fun with her best friend as she could before everything would inevitably change. When she was called to leave for the temple, she took one last look at the young woman in the mirror, with her painted lips and silky hair and small breasts that had been cinched up to her shoulders, and didn’t recognize her at all. 

The ceremony was held not too far from the Lionett estate, in one of the many temples erected for Ioun throughout the empire. By the time Beau’s carriage had arrived, guests had already began to trickle past the beautiful carved double doors. A pair of crownsguard stood sentinel at the entrance, clad in fine robes of vermillion and maroon beneath bronze breastplates that looked more ceremonial than substantial. A handsome young man Lord Lionett has recently hired to guard the estate (whose name Beau could not be bothered to know) walked her to the steps of the temple, surgically weaving through curious onlookers, giving the crownsguards a dutiful nod as they stepped inside. 

“My congratulations, ma’am.” He told her politely once they entered the main chamber. “It’s quite a lovely day for a wedding, if I may be so forward in sayin’ so. Quite a lovely locale for the ceremony too.” He motioned with his head toward the general area around them and Beau found herself agreeing. 

It was a beautiful piece of architecture; high ceilings carried the murmur of conversation to every corner of the hall and the entire chamber was bathed in a pale blue glow as the midday sun reached stained glass windows. But there was something about the space that made Beau uneasy. The monastery she had studied at in Zadash was grand as well, yes, but it was filled with tomes and records and people of all sorts paying their respects and seeking the guidance of the Knowing Mistress. Here, there was not a scrap of parchment in sight, just rows of people she almost recognized, speaking to one another in hushed tones and ignoring the prayer books in front of them.

Beau could not so much as nod at the young man before before she was ushered into a back room for final preparations.

“Hurry up,” her father told her, stern and impatient as ever. “The guests have been waiting for the better part of the morning. As has Lord Widogast.”

Beau scowled at the mention of her betrothed as Jester began hurriedly rebrushing her hair. “I wasn’t the one who invited them.” She muttered, a weak attempt at provocation.

Her father ignored it. “What did you do to your hair?” He chided, giving a disapproving click of his tongue as he reached for the stubborn strands that always fell in front of her eyes. “It looked fine when we got into the carriage.” 

Beau shirked away from his touch, glaring into his eyes all the silent resentment she could muster. She hated how much they looked like her own. 

He evenly matched the ice in her gaze and let out a slow breath through his nose. “Take care of this, Miss Lavorre. I will give word to the acolytes to begin the ceremony soon.”

“Yes, my lord.” Jester said with a respectful nod, wrapping a cobalt ribbon around the tail of Beau’s braid.

Lord Lionett held eye contact with his daughter for a second longer before turning out of the room, his boots audibly clacking against the floor and navy blue dress robes trailing behind him.

“I’m so sorry, Beau.” Jester said softly after a moment has passed.

Beau let out a shaky sigh. She felt like throwing up all the food she hadn’t yet eaten today. To look thin in her wedding gown, her mother had recommended.

“It’s fine,” Beau told her, the reassurance hollow. “At least I won’t have to put up with him anymore. I’ll be somebody else’s problem.”

_ I’ll be somebody else’s,  _ she thought with a shiver.

Jester made a quiet, sympathetic sound and Beau turned around to face her. Her bottom lip gave a telling quiver and her violet eyes began to water with tears. 

“Hey, hey,” Beau said, pulling her into a hug. “Don’t worry about me, okay? I just have to walk down the aisle, say a couple words, and walk back. That’s it. That’s all, okay?”

Both of them knew better than to believe it, but Jester still gave a sniffle and nodded against Beau’s shoulder.

“Okay.” 

With shaky hands, Jester finished retying Beau’s braid, reapplied powder to her cheeks, and adjusted the sash around her waist. Outside, the din of conversation grew louder and Beau felt a surge of adrenaline pump through her veins. On instinct, she balled her neatly manicured hands into fists and cracked her wrists, as if her body hungered for a fight. 

“You look very beautiful, Beau.” Jester told her gently, giving her a tender smile.

For the first time all day, Beau felt a wave of warmth spread inside her chest. 

“Thanks, Jessie.”

Jester opened her mouth as if to say something, but was cut off by the familiar sound of Lord Lionett clearing his throat. Beau turned to him, and felt an odd vulnerability she had not felt in a long time. For a moment, she was a little girl again, proudly showing her Papa a picture of a mermaid she drew, or secret code she had penned, only to be chastised and sent to her room. Now, all that little girl wanted was for her Papa to smile down and her and tell her she looked beautiful like any other man would tell his daughter on her wedding day before giving her away. But Beau was too proud to grovel and her father too proud to give in. Instead, he looked her up and down with those icy, calculating eyes, scanning her appearance one last time.

Beau readied herself for the incoming barrage of criticism but it never came. 

“It is time.” He said simply, holding the door ajar. A wedding ballad began to play from the adjacent hall, slow and clear and all too much like a funeral march.

Jester gave her hand one last squeeze and Beau squeezed back, despite the way her hand was shaking. 

“Fine,” she told her father, “Lead the way.”

Lord Lionett presented his arm, and Beau took it. 

Whatever ambient conversation that had not been halted by the music faded away when Lady Beauregard Lionett of Kamordah began to walk down the aisle. There had been talk, of course, of the young woman’s unruly and downright hedonistic behavior, but few from the community could boast to have seen it in action. Indeed, Beauregard had spent the later part of her adolescence in Zadash for schooling and Lord Lionett and his wife took great pains to quash any unsavory rumors about their first born at every opportunity. So it came as a shock when the troublesome girl the majority of guests had only heard talk of was the very picture of respectability and Dwendalian womanhood. 

Well, barring that grim, stony expression more suited for a widow than a bride.  

Beau looked from pew to pew, scanning the sea of scattered faces that still managed to look unimpressive gathered in such a lofty temple. All across the hall the faces stared back, only breaking their silence to breath a whisper to their neighbors once she had passed them. Beau tried not to imagine what they could be saying.

“At least pretend to be happy,” Lord Lionett whispered in her ear as the music began to swell. “It is your wedding day, after all.”

“Lucky me.” She hissed through her teeth. But she took a deep breath and willed her scowl to neutralize all the same.

Music continued to fill the temple where guests could not, the sound of lute and horns coming from above and behind her. She looked up towards the ceiling, craning her neck slightly in hopes of catching a glimpse of the bards on their balcony perch. But all Beau could see were the beams and rafters, tens of feet above her head, and began to feel dizzy. On instinct, she clutched her father's arm to stabilize herself, immediately hating how sturdy he felt in her grasp. 

“Settle,” he told her, his voice soft. “Do not let them see you fall.”

Beau swallowed and nodded. That was something the pair could agree on. She held her chin up, not in compliance but in spite of it, and continued her march down the aisle. Instead of wandering among the audience, her gaze was lifted towards the ornate mural just above her eye line. Three glowing eyes, beautifully rendered in violet glass, stared back at her, unblinking and unyielding.

For what it was worth, probably not much, Beauregard prayed.  _ Give me strength, O Knowing Mistress _ , she silently pleaded.  _ Strength in the knowledge that everything will be alright. _

Ioun, for all her omnipotence, revealed nothing more than the beams of light that shone through her likeness on the window. But Beau did not look away from the portrait’s stare, even as all other details, Her flowing silver hair, the collection of parchments and tombs that surrounded Her, the twisted black figures beneath Her blue and white robes, faded into one another in her peripheral. She could see the silhouette of her husband in the corner of her eye amongst the mismatch of glass, but did not dare turn her attention until she reached the steps of the bema. 

Beau hoped the difference between piety and fear was not great enough for any to distinguish. 

Lord Lionett released his daughter’s arm as the music came to an end, the entire temple waiting with more silence than it had all morning. Beau half expected her father to walk away without so much as goodbye, so when he planted one last kiss on her forehead before joining her mother in the pews, she fought the sudden urge to cry. 

For the few seconds between her father’s ceremonial send off and her ascent up the steps of the altar to be joined with the man who would be her husband, Beauregard was as close to free in the eyes of the law as she would ever be. For a heartbeat, she belonged to no man. And yet, Beau had never felt more devoid of choice or autonomy than at present.

She looked to her father, sitting upright and at attention with his dark hair expertly coiffed, a spitting facade of proper Dwendalian nobility. Her mother, done up in the tightest of dresses that strategically displayed the expectant swell of her stomach without compromising class, was weeping. 

_ You never have to see them again _ , a quiet voice reminded her, and Beau felt a morbid satisfaction at the thought that her parents were probably thinking the same thing. It made it all the more easy to turn away from the family Beau had always been keenly aware belonged to someone else and ascend the couple of stone steps up the altar. 

That was the moment she saw her husband for the first time.

She had heard stories, of course, of the Baron of Blumenthal, stories that had only become more sensational and terrible in the months following their betrothal. Some claimed he killed his own parents in cold blood and flames to acquire their fortune and vast estate as a boy. Many simply wrote him off as a madman, confined to his manor after years of being institutionalized. Others dared to tell of his past as a pupil under the traitorous Maester Ikithon, before the crown had thrown the old man in prison for conspiracy with the Krynn and unlawful arcane practices. Those were the worst stories by far. 

However, the man standing in front of Beau was not the Lord Widogast that rumor and myth had whispered of. He was pale and thin, with greasy, collar length red hair pulled back and held with a leather band. Beau could see in the curve of his nose and shape of his cheekbones that he might have been a formidable, even handsome man years ago. But now, with his scraggly, rust colored beard and dark under eye splotches, he looked as miserable as she felt.

Beau couldn’t tell if it made her feel better or worse.

As the ceremony continued, the Baron of Blumenthal seemed to shrink under the attention of it all. He dropped Beau’s gaze as soon as he caught it, opting instead to examine the stone beneath their feet or the empty space just above her shoulder. Though he was standing not three feet away from her, Beau could barely make out his voice from the rest when temple joined in prayer.

_ Glory to the Gods and to our good King Bertrand Dwendal, whose law is absolute. _

Beau cared little for the Gods and even less for the king, but repeated the blessings nonetheless. Appearance, that was what counted. To behave a sweet girl, to look a proper young lady, to play a pious, dutiful wife. It was the chief lesson her parents had imparted on her, and Beau knew how to wield it when she so desired. She did not expect, however, to have to wield those falsehoods for the rest of her life.

Lord Widogast clearly never had the pleasure of listening to her mother’s lectures. If his morose demeanor was not enough to display his apathy, the wrinkled dress robes and beaten boots certainly did the trick. One would think that a man who carried a title of nobility would put more care into the way he presented himself. Beau looked down at her own dress, at the deep blue satin with all its fine embroidery and the heavy jade jewelry that adorned her body and felt stupidly overdressed. 

_ We gather today beneath the eyes of Ioun, The Knowing Mistress, Seer of Things That Are and Things Will Be. May She, with divine sight, witness and smile upon this blessed union. It is in Her name we pray.  _

The few beats of silence that followed each prayer filled Beau with a mounting agitation. Standing on a stone pedestal reciting words she didn’t mean next to a man she didn’t know was somehow worse than being paraded through rows of judging silhouettes by her father. Whatever subsequent blessings and sermons were said passed Beau by in a haze. An itchy, restless energy hummed in her ears pounded in her chest. Beau picked at her cuticles and furled and unfurled her toes, trying to give her anxiety an outlet that wasn’t punching the acolyte in the throat and running from the chamber. 

Then finally, she heard her husband’s voice clearly for the first time.

“I, Caleb Widogast,” he said, repeating in a gentle Zemnian accent the what the acolyte fed him. 

“Vow to take you, Beauregard Lionett, as my wife.”

“Vow to take you, Beauregard Lionett, as my wife.” Though he spoke in dulcet tones, his words were amplified throughout the temple.

“And to love and cherish you as long as I may live, upon all that I am and all that is good.”

Lord Caleb Widogast extended a pair of gloved hands in her direction. “And to love and cherish you as long as I may live, upon all that I am and all that is good.” With pale blue eyes, he stared at her, his expression sincere yet almost pleading from what Beau could ascertain. Until this moment, they hard shared little more than a few seconds of eye contact before the Baron would quickly avert his gaze. Now, he did not so much as blink.

In her peripheral, the acolyte cleared his throat and subtly indicated for her to take Lord Widogast’s hands. She did, and found them trembling beneath the leather.

“I, Beauregard Lionett,” prompted the voice just out of her sight line. “Vow to take you, Caleb Widogast, as my husband.”

“I, Beauregard Lionett, vow to take you, Caleb Widogast, as my husband.”

“And to love and cherish you as long as I may live, upon all that I am and all that is good.”

Beau had to swallow down the bile rising in her throat. Sure, she could waltz down the aisle in a gaudy dress and utter prayers to deities who may or may not have been listening, but declaring her undying love for this… this man made the entire ceremony frighteningly real and fabricated at the same time. All of it was a lie, that she had known in the abstract, she supposed. But Beau could not disguise the hopeless shock and pain in the way she echoed, “And… and to love and cherish you. As long as I may live, upon all that I am and all that is good.”

The acolyte wrapped a leather strap around the couple’s hands, joining them together, and Beau felt something inside of her deteach and crumble and collapse. A thin metal band was slipped over her finger, and Beau imagined herself swallowed up by an ocean she had only heard stories about, thrown about by the waves before being dragged asunder, her physical body having not left Ioun’s temple.

She barely registered the final blessings of the ceremony through the crash and roar of water against her ears.

_ I call upon Erathis, The Lawbringer, to see this union as licit and just under Her holy subjugation and commandment. _

Her lungs were burning, clawing and wailing for air. Everything, the stained glass visage of The Knowing Mistress, the figures in the pews, her husband’s somber, weary face, was distorted in churning green light.

_ As a vessel for authority both earthly and divine, with The Knowing Mistress and all who surround me as my witnesses, I do declare this union lawful and true. May the Gods, for all Their might and benevolence, grant unto this union longevity, prosperity, and a love which may set a thousand pyres ablaze. _

On the surface, there were cheers and applause. The bards played a jaunty tune that Beau still heard tens of feet underwater. Lord Widogast offered his arm and Beau saw herself reach out to take it, with the same routine dejection that had propelled her every motion since the morning. Again, she was guided down the aisle past rows of smiling faces, that dolled out congratulations that went right through her. Beau felt the corners of her mouth curl into a smile too, wooden and hollow. 

The two crownsgaurd that had been watching the ceremony from the temple’s entrance each pushed open the double doors, stepping aside to let the pair of them pass. Arm and arm, The Baron and Baroness of Blumenthal strode into the blinding afternoon sun.

Beau nearly choked on the fresh air, finally breaching the surface. It was quieter out here, somehow. The sound of music and chatter was persistent yet faint, enclosed within the temple walls. A hearty gust shook the trees, rustling the few colorful leaves that had yet to fall. She shivered as the dry mountain wind whistled past her, mussing the strands of hair that had fallen from her braid. Suddenly, Beau felt a leather clad hand come to rest on her bare shoulder and jerked back in surprise. 

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you, Miss Lionett,” Lord Widogast said, withdrawing his hand. “I simply wanted inform you that my carriage is ready to leave for Blumenthal whenever you wish.”

“Great,” Beau said back, her tone  brusque and with little inflection. After a beat of silence she added, “Where is it?” 

“Ah, right this way.” Lord Widogast replied, leading her around the structure towards the main road. It was difficult to balance on the gravel path, especially in her present footwear, but Beau would not reach for her husband’s support.  _ Her husband.  _ The words were icky and foreign in her head and she couldn’t help but cringe. By the time they reached the vehicle, Beau heard a sudden babel of conversation and turned to see a handful of guests begin to flood from temple. 

“I’m ready to leave now.” Beau said, and Lord Widogast looked at her in surprise.

“You do not want to say goodbye to your family?” He asked, sounding almost suspicious.

“No, no I don’t.” Beau told him, quick and sharp. Without breaking eye contact, she reached for the door handle, challenging him on some small level while still waiting for his consent.

Lord Widogast looked at her, then towards the small crowd collected around the temple, then back to her again. “You may wait inside,” he said, giving a small motion towards the door. “However, I would very much like to have a word with your father before we depart.” He must have noticed the look of displeasure across Beau’s face because he quickly added, “It will not take long, I assure you. No one will bother you in there.”

Beau let out a huff of breath through her nose and wrenched open the door, stepping inside without a word. She watched through a small, somewhat dusty window as Lord Widogast retreated back up the gravel path, his coattails flapping in the wind. Unfortunately, even while craning her neck, Beau could only see so much through such a restricted field of vision, and before long the man was out of sight. 

She groaned and knocked her head back against the plush, velvet upholstery before sulking down in her seat. 

“ _ Mrrow?” _

Beau glanced up and found herself face to face with a speckled Bengal cat. 

“Uhh… Hello?” Beau said slowly as she pushed herself upright, a bit taken aback by the pair of curious cyan eyes peering at her. She extended a wary hand right just above the cat’s head and grinned in spite of herself when the creature nuzzled against it. “How’d you get in here?”

The cat gave a soft mewl, and Beau gave it a couple scratches behind the ears, before running her fingers through its sleek bronze fur. For the first time, Beau took a close look around the interior of the carriage. It was fairly spacious, as carriages go, made from some polished dark wood lined with red velvet. Beau ran a finger along the interior door, collecting a thin film of dust, as if it had not seen much use in a long time. On the bench across from her, the cat was perched on a small stack of leather bound tomes, swishing its tail and watching Beau with those eerily bright eyes. 

“What’cha got there?” Beau asked, leaning forward with interest. Usually, she wasn’t one for academic study, but a pair of suspiciously unmarked books in the carriage of a recluse and mysterious nobleman was enough to pique her curiosity. Besides, she had nothing better to do.

“ _ Mrrrp _ ” mewed the cat, not moving from its spot. 

“Lemme see that,” Beau said, pulling the top book out from under the cat’s perch. It gave a hiss of surprise and jumped down to curl up on the bench, ears flat against its head. If a cat could give a grouchy, disapproving look, this one did.

“Oh, calm down.” Beau told it, rolling her eyes. The cat made another displeased hiss sound, wrapping its slinky tail around itself. Beau ignored it. Instead, she drummed her fingers against the worn leather book cover, examining the spine for any kind of title or identification. Nothing. She flipped open the cover with a cautious hand, just as she had been taught to handle records at the Cobalt Soul. The margins of the bound pages were completely covered in messy handwriting in a language Beau couldn’t understand. But on the first page in carefully penned ink, she read the tome’s description.

**A Study on Dunamis**

And at the bottom of the page, stamped in an all too familiar shade of blue: 

**_Property of the Archive of the Cobalt Soul_ **

Beau felt her heart skip a beat. Any slip of parchment the Archive had access to was not to be taken from the halls, much less across the Egelin Quarry to Kamordah. Beau herself had tried to sneak a collection of documents detailing what little was known of the tumultuous love affair between The Wildmother and the Lawbearer up to her room during her time in Zadash, and was promptly caught and reprimanded. Whatever information this book contained must be of the utmost importance to Lord Widogast. Taking such a dense tome from such a well guarded place was quite a feat indeed. It was no wonder he looked so uncomfortable under The Knowing Mistress’s eye. 

Suddenly, there was a sharp rapping at the carriage door and Beau nearly threw  _ A Study on Dunamis _ across the compartment. She quickly placed it back atop the other book just as the door creaked open and Lord Widogast clambered inside. 

“Ah,” her husband said, settling into the bench across from her. “I see you have met Frumpkin.”

The Bengal cat meowed happily, climbing into Lord Widogast’s lap and Beau let herself breathe a sigh of relief. Angering the rumored Madman of Blumenthal Manor would certainly have been an unfortunate start to their marriage. Beau watched the man scratch the soft fur under Frumpkin’s chin and cradle the creature’s tiny face in his hands.

“He is a very good boy.” Lord Widogast informed her, looking at Frumpkin with a thin lipped half smile. The cat began to purr, stretching and snuggling into the fabric of his owner’s dress robes.

“Sure, sure.” Beau replied noncommittally. 

“You are all set to go,  _ ja? _ ” Lord Widogast asked, to read her expression as if he were as if he was either genuinely concerned about the matter or expecting her to lie to him. 

Beau nodded. 

“ _ Wunderbar _ ,” he replied, rapping his knuckles against a wooden panel above his head to signal to the coachman. Beau clutched the bench cushions as the carriage gave a worrying creak and began to move over the gravel path. Across from her, Lord Widogast gave a deep sigh and undid the leather band held his bun, letting his messy red hair hang freely past his chin. He loosened the blue cravat around his neck that Beau realized with a start was meant to match the color of her dress, and promptly buried his nose in one of the leather bound books by his side.  

Beau turned her attention toward the window affixed to the door, tracing a finger along the specks of dirt that clouded the outside of the glass. She watched with a peculiar cocktail of sadness and satisfaction as the crowd, and the temple, and eventually Kamordah itself, disappeared behind the mountains and faded into the horizon. There came a point in their travel where Beau no longer recognized the dirt roads and sign markers, and felt a sudden urge to break out in tears. Leaving home, this time for good, always sounded so much better in her head.

_ Do not let them see you fall,  _ her father’s voice echoed in her head.

There were very few Beau trusted enough to show her vulnerabilities, and this man, with a stolen tomb balanced on one knee and a sleeping cat on the other, was not one of them. For once, she followed her father’s advice as best she could, shutting her eyes and summoning up whatever self control she could muster. As the carriage continued to rattle along the northern path, Beau let the rocking lull her into something akin to ease, and tried not to think about the thin, golden weight that rested heavy on her left hand.


	2. vows made in wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now I am a wife: my bliss is sobered, but not destroyed; my hopes diminished, but not departed; my fears increased, but not yet thoroughly confirmed.” ― Anne Brontë, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

Hours of silence passed by before either lord or lady spoke again.

Upon entering the carriage, Beauregard had expected her new husband to prod her with questions and conversation. About her childhood, her family, what her favorite household duty to preform was, or whatever. She had intended, at least, to dodge them all, to stubbornly brandish her composure like a shield and refuse Lord Widogast the simplest satisfaction a response might yield. But Lord Widogast had not uttered so much as a word in her direction since their ride begun. He took to his tomes and paid no mind to anything else, not even the sleepy cat curled by his side. It was oddly disappointing. Almost frustrating, even.

So, after a solid thirty minutes of waiting for nothing, Beau gave up. She sprawled across the length of the bench with a huff, letting whatever aura of austerity and poise she had tried to cultivate fall away. Minutes turned to hours as the rickety carriage made its way across the countryside, and Beau got more and more restless with every passing moment. The lack of action, the sheer boredom of it all was stifling. Compared to awful, overabundance of emotion the morning had brought, this was almost worse.

Sometime between counting the dust bunnies in the air and failing to take a nap, Beau realized the sun had begun to set. After another tedious half hour of travel, she decided she couldn’t take it any longer.

“I’m bored.” She complained, not caring one bit about how childish or unpleasant she sounded. “How much longer is this gonna take?”

There was no immediate reply, and Beau felt a prickle of irritation at her skin. But before she could repeat herself, Lord Widogast spoke up.

“We are to arrive at nightfall,” she heard him say. “There is still much ground to cover between here and Zemni Fields, I am afraid.”

Beau let out a groan and rolled over on the bench to face him. He had not looked up from his book. In fact, as far as she could tell he had hardly moved at all. “Can’t we stop at a town or something for the night and get back on the road tomorrow?” She asked, then adding, a less irritably: “I’m just sick of being cooped up in here.”

At this, Lord Widogast glanced up, regarding her with a puzzled and strangely grieved expression. “You know that we cannot.” He told her quietly.

Beau raised an eyebrow in confusion, waiting from him to elaborate, and rolled her eyes with an exasperated huff of breath when he returned to his book instead.

_What, do you have something against not being trapped in a wooden box for eight hours straight, or are you just an asshole?_

“I feel bound to tell you that there will be crownsguard present tonight.” Lord Widogast said a few minutes later, still engrossed in his reading.

“What, like to watch the property?” She asked, blatantly disinterested.

“Ah, _nien_ ,” he replied, looking up at her warily, like he was trying to decide if she was serious or not. “To witness the consummation of our marriage.”

With those words, Lord Widogast may as well have struck her across the face. Beau froze in her seat, her stomach twisted into a knot of appall, her mouth agape in a manner much too similar to horror.  

He frowned at her, taken aback by her reaction. “Surely, you knew what was required of us this evening?”

“I…” Beau began, her throat very dry all of a sudden. Because, honestly, she should have expected this. She knew about the laws regarding married noble households, however outdated they were. She knew herself to be married now, despite how bastardized the concept of being so truly was. And she knew her groom to be a nobleman, regardless of the suspicion surrounding how he gained such a position in the first place. But somehow, such a logical conclusion had evade her understanding. Or perhaps, it was her who evaded coming to that conclusion.

Her husband looked at her with pity in his pale blue eyes. “I am very sorry, Miss Lionett. In times like these, the crown takes great pains to impose such laws and traditions as this one upon whoever they can. It is out of my hands, unfortunately.”

Beau said nothing, turning away to stare through the unwashed glass of the carriage window. Behind the speckles of dirt, the early evening sun bled orange and pink across an otherwise clear sky. She stared right at it, like her parents had always warned her not to, until she saw spots.

That terrible, curious part of her mind could not help but imagine laying with the man beside her. What his hands would feel like beneath those leather gloves as he touched her hips, her face, her breasts. Whether or not his beard would feel itchy on her skin. What the weight of his body would feel atop hers as he spread her legs and entered her…

Beau’s vision went white and she pulled away from the window, coughing. The acrid flavor of bile rose up beneath her tongue and she winced as she swallowed it down.

“Are you alright?” Lord Widogast asked, and Beau felt his hand on her shoulder. For the second time, she pushed him away.

“Fine,” she made out between breaths, blinking as her sight gradually returned. _Don’t you fucking touch me_ , snarled a voice in her head.

As if he could read her thoughts, Lord Widogast retreated to the other bench, looking down uneasily at his worn boots. “I apologize, I was under the impression that you were aware of our responsibilities this evening.”

“It’s fine.” Beau said, not trusting herself to say anything more.

Another few minutes of silence went by before Lord Widogast spoke again. “I, ah, I do not mean to pry,” he said, speaking with dangerous caution. “But… is your chastity… intact?”

Which, _wow_ , was really not the conversation Beau wanted to have with this guy, nevermind his fucking terrible timing. She made no effort to conceal the bite behind her words. “You mean am I a virgin?”

“I ask only because they will undoubtedly send a medic to conduct an examination to make sure.” Lord Widogast said to the carriage floor, beginning to blush beneath his beard. “It is not any of my concern, I understand. However, as head of the household, I would very much like to be aware of any… surprises I may have to cover for.”

“What do you mean, surprises?

“I do not have an opinion either way, of course,” he went on, like he hadn’t heard her question, speaking as if he had rehearsed his explanation many times before in his head. “It really makes no difference to me. It is simply... Well, if I am going to have orchestrate a deal with the crownsguard, I would much rather be aware of it sooner rather than later.”

“Hey, my lord?” Beau said, her blunt, almost mocking use of his title successfully halting his rambling and grabbing his attention. “I promise you, as your wife, none of that is going to be necessary.”

He looked confused.

“I’ve never been with a man before, if that’s what they care about.”

Beau watched as her husband's expression changed from unsure to warily understanding. “I see.” Lord Widogast said quietly, before falling silent.

She felt a breath of relief pass through her at the conclusion of her husband’s questioning. The feeling only lasted a moment or two, however, before he required clarification.

“So, you lie with women then.”

Beau let out a deep sigh, not even trying to hide her annoyance. “Preferably, yes. Now, can you please stop asking me about my sex life?”

Lord Widogast’s blush returned, almost matching the shade of his scraggly red beard. “I assure you I have no interest beyond fulfilling my duty tonight.” He looked away, embarrassed, and reopened the leather tome on his lap. Beau watched him for a minute, then two, then five, waiting expectantly for him to say more on the subject, but he did not.

He seemed to notice her gaze, though, eventually exhaling a long breath through his nose before adding: “If you are still bored, you may borrow one of my books. Provided you are careful with it, of course.”

Eagerly, Beau perked up. “Wait, really?” She asked, in complete disbelief. Was this guy seriously about to show stolen archival documents to a student of the Cobalt Soul? _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._

“Yes, really.” Lord Widogast said suspiciously, as if confused by her skepticism. “All I ask is that you are gentle with it.” He reached for the leather bound tome by his side, brushed off the cover, and handed it to her. “Very few copies of this text are circulated within the Empire; I am very lucky to have it in my possession.”

Gods, either Lord Widogast had no idea what the fuck he was doing, or he really was as crazy as everyone said.

“No, yeah, I’ll be super gentle, don’t worry.” Beau assured him, grabbing the book from his hands. Struggling to contain her excitement, she quickly turned open the cover and scanned the writing inside.

**The Courting of the Crick**

**_A torrid, tragic tale of passion, deceit, and heartbreak amidst the chaos of wa_** _**r.** _

Beau felt her body slump in disappointment. Really, she should have known the offer was too good to be true. She glanced up at the practically identical book currently resting on Lord Widogast’s lap and then back down to her own.

**_Four months had gone by like a twinkle in a lover’s eye since General Theo had be thrust from the safety of Bladegarden to the front lines. Still in the prime and vigor his youth, part of him, an admittedly selfish part of him, hoped to never see the horrors of war firsthand. So many had warned him against enlisting, telling him he was too gentle to take the life of another man, too handsome to waste his days in the ugly trenches. But Theo knew that it was his sworn duty as a Dwendalian citizen to uphold glory of the Empire and defend the land he loved so much, no matter what the cost. Even if it meant never knowing a woman’s gentle touch again._ **

Great, so she’s stuck reading some hundred pages of erotic propaganda for the rest of the trip. Just… awesome. And somehow, it wouldn’t be anywhere close to the worst part of the day.

Sometime later, well after the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, a rapping knock against the exterior of the carriage jolted Beau awake. Her forehead was pressed against the tiny door frame and _The Courting of The Crick_ was still open on her lap, like she had knocked out while reading. She didn’t even remember falling asleep. Weird.

“Ah, _Hallo_ there, Lady Lionett.” came Lord Widogast’s voice, and Beau pulled herself up to face him, blinking to adjust to the moonlight. “We will be arriving at Blumenthal Manor very shortly. That is all.”

Beau just yawned and nodded. Across the compartment, Frumpkin opened his tiny mouth and gave a mewling yawn too, snuggled in the folds of Lord Widogast’s overcoat. The man made a soft, affectionate sound and scratched the creature behind its dappled ears. “You are a quite the sleepy boy there aren’t you, _mein kleiner._ ” He cooed, smiling for what Beau could have sworn was the first time in hours.  

With a creak, the carriage abruptly paused and changed its trajectory, tossing the passengers about and nearly knocking Beau’s head against the wall. At the last second she caught herself, bracing her forearm against the edge of the dirty windowpane, coming face to face with her new surroundings for the first time.

The carriage had paused in front of an iron gate at least twice her height, with spiked points that seemed to scrape the darkened sky. Some kind of invasive plant life had woven its way through the rusty bars, making it look more otherworldly and unruly than really menacing. Beau heard the gate creak open with a low, baleful groan and felt the carriage rattle and shook as it continued on its way. A cobblestone path, probably, judging by the bumpy ride.

When the carriage turned again, Beau caught a glimpse of an enormous, grim looking manor, the spitting image of every haunted castle in every fairytale she had ever read. It was of classic Zemnian architecture: a triangular roof, wide and sturdy, turrets protruding from either end. Each brick of masonry from the walls to the battlements all wore different stages of discoloration, dark grays that faded somewhere between stone and beige. A sprig of vines crawled up the base of the castle on either side of the oaken double doors.

“Welcome home.” Lord Widogast said as the carriage shuddered to a stop, extending his hand towards to the exit. “Now, may I have my book back, if you please?”

“Uh, yeah, sorry.” Beau handed it over, still taking in building through the window. She had seen structures like this up close before, even been inside a couple of them. But living in one? Hells, being practically in charge of one? That was something different.

Someone, presumably a coachman opened the door from the outside, and Frumpkin quickly skittered over her shoes and out the door in a blur of orange fur. Immediately, the chilly night air made the compartment grow at least ten degrees colder.

Beau stepped out and onto the stone pathway, stretching out her arms, her legs, her neck. As she took her first steps, her feet nearly gave out beneath her, weary from disuse. But Lord Widogast caught her, placing a careful hand on the small of her back, guiding her towards the manor doors. Her skin prickled with goosebumps through the thin material of her gown.

“I know it is probably much colder in Zemni Fields than where you are from.” He told her. “I am sure we have some spare furs should your wardrobe be in need of warmer clothing.”

“I have furs.” Beau replied a little bitterly, shirking away from his touch a bit. He wasn’t wrong-- almost everything she owned was intended for the more temperate climate of the former Julous region. But she hated the idea of him taking care of her more than anything. Besides, someone had given her a fur cloak as a betrothal gift. She was more than covered.

“I see.” He said softly, pulling away from her, his cat curling around his boots protectively. “Well, if you ever find yourself in need of anything, do not hesitate to let me know. I know I may be a perfect stranger to you, Lady Lionett, but I am your husband as well.”

With that, he pushed a door open and disappeared into the dim light of the manor. Beau took one last look at the cold, bleak world around her, bathed in silver and shadow, and followed her husband inside.

What felt like a lifetime ago, she remembered hearing her parents gush on and on about the splendor, the opulence of Blumenthal Manor. And though it pained her a bit to do so, Beau had to admit that her parents were not entirely wrong. It was indeed a sight to behold.

Every inch of the landing floor was carpeted in dark red fabric. Beautifully woven tapestries draped every corner of the great hall, and a polished wooden finish lined what part of the walls they could not cover. The hall stretched at least sixty feet before splitting into a pair of staircases, leading up to another two or so floors of corridors and high ceilings. It was the kind of old, inimitable grandeur that could only nobility could ever possess. New money Empire families could build a mansion twice the size of Blumenthal Manor, but it could never hold half the stories, half the heart of the genuine article.

But the most striking part of the hall was not the art, nor the decades of secrets hidden within the  walls. It was the fireplace.

It stood at the junction of the stairways, the centerpiece of craftsmanship and affluence among everything else in the room. Even from her distance, Beau could tell it was a good head taller than her in either dimension. Ornate sculptural detailing, cast entirely in dark, tough metal framed the hearth. The wrought iron flames seemed to spill across the face of the fireplace, practically licking the mantle. Had its contents been ignited, the entire chamber would have been set aglow in brilliant light.

Unfortunately, that was not the case. There were no windows in the hall, the only light came from steadily burning candelabras mounted to the walls. It seemed much too dark and much too silent to be any kind of home; Beau could heard no sound seep through the doors they passed, no conversation, no scurrying of servants. Even their footfall was muted by the thick carpeting. There was something hollow about Blumenthal Manor. All the luxuries it held simply existed inside it, rather than filled it. She supposed she understood how it could drive someone mad.

“Nice place,” she commented, following her husband to the stairs.

“It has stood since before Zemni Fields became part of the Empire.” Lord Widogast told her. “Blumenthal Manor had been mostly out of use in recent years, but our King Bertrand was generous enough to conduct the necessary repairs upon my acquisition of it.”

“Gotcha,” Beau said simply, now close enough to admire the fireplace in all its glory. To achieve such fluid, delicate shape with that kind of metal must have taken incredible skill. Or maybe it didn’t. Fuck if she know a thing about blacksmithing. “He did a pretty impressive job.” She nodded at the hearth in front of them.

“ _Ja_ , he did.” Lord Widogast agreed somewhat distantly, staring into the fire pit. Not a single ash nor charred bit of splinter sullied the interior. After a beat, he looked at her again and gestured at one of the staircases. “Shall we?”

“Uh, sure.” Beau said, lifting her gown above her ankles and starting up the stairs. Even those were carpeted too. “Where to again?”

“The East Wing.” Lord Widogast answered. “Your things are being moved to my bedchambers as we speak.”

Beau wanted to tell him that she hadn’t so much as heard a single footstep, never mind someone carrying heavy cases of her belongings, but thought better of it.

“Representatives from the Empire are waiting for me below in the parlor.” He continued, as the pair made their way down another dreary hallway. “There are a few things, documentations and the like, that I need to sort out with them. I have a physician on call for your, ah, examination this evening, if you require his services.”

“That’s not gonna be necessary,” Beau replied immediately. “Jes-- my lady’s maid is in charge of all matters concerning my health and wellness. I won’t let anyone else do this but her. ”

If someone was going to strap her down and shove metal instruments up her vagina, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be her creepy husband’s creepy man doctor.  

Lord Widogast paused in front of a smaller set of double doors at the end of the corridor and nodded. “I understand. That can easily be arranged upon her arrival, provided she has proof of her medical license on her person. Please, make yourself at home in my absence, Lady Lionett.” He knocked twice on the door, turned on his heel, and left Beau alone in the doorway.

_Well, not entirely alone_ , she clarified, suddenly noticing her husband’s cat scratching at the heavy door.

“How the hell did you manage to sneak by me?”

“ _Mrrow,_ ” Frumpkin mewled, demanding to be let in.

“Alright then, don’t tell me, I guess.” Beau replied, rolling her eyes at the animal as she opened the door and followed it inside.

Not completely unsurprisingly, Lord Widogast’s bedchamber was oddly just as grim as the rest of the place. It was spectacular, to be sure, with its wide canopied bed that filled the middle of the room and ornately carved wooden wardrobes, but not without that same kind of hollowness present everywhere else in the manor. Still, Beau would have thought that such a personal place would have some sense of personality, but aside from the leather bound tombs on the nightstand, and the cat who had quickly claimed its territory on the armchair, the room could have belonged to any nobleman in Wildemount. Even the tapestry on the wall depicted a rather trite scene of mythical fey creatures frolicking in rolling hills and meadows.

“Hello?” Beau called, to no reply. She tried again, peeking behind curtains, but was met with the same eerie silence.

As soon as she was sure no one else was in in the room, Beau released the tension that had strung up her body ever since she step foot in that damn temple. _Finally_ , some fucking space. She tore off her gloves carelessly, then her earrings, then the heavy jade necklace that weighed at the juncture of her collarbone. The bangle bracelets were the next to go, discarded on the fur comforter on the bed alongside the rest of her things. With a long sigh of relief she cracked her wrists and shook out her arms. Gods, she felt so light without all that stupid jewelry. Beau forgot how heavy it all was.   

She had let out her braid and was in the middle of trying to unlacing the back of her wedding gown when heavy footfall sounded from outside the room. Beau quickly recognized it as quite uncharacteristic of her husband, and hated that she could already tell his gate from any other strangers.

“Lady Lionett’s things,” a gruff voice announced, as they pounded on the door. Before Beau could slip her sleeves back over her now bared shoulders or even make her presence known, an armor clad figure barged through the doors, Beau’s luggage in tow.

“Uh, yeah, she’s in here!” Beau called, crossing her arms over her chest for modesty’s sake and looking away.

“Oh shit,” the figure exclaimed, followed by a loud clunk of wood against carpeted wood. Beau winced at the sound of her things hitting the floor. “Son of a-- I got it, don’t worry.”

Beau looked over to see a short woman, stocky and dressed in pieces of armor over a simple tunic and trousers, scooping a small chest off the bedroom floor. She looked at Beau with a flustered, embarrassed expression, tucking the chest under her shoulder and running a hand through short, russet colored hair.

“Uh, sorry about that.” The woman said, a blush forming on her cheeks and spreading down to a strong, square jaw. Beau was almost a hundred percent sure she saw her eyes dance across her figure, lingering a moment too long on her chest before quickly glancing elsewhere. “I didn’t know you’d be here I, uh-- I’ll just bring the rest of your stuff in and head on out.”

Beau looked the woman up and down, taking in her honey colored eyes, her broad shoulders, her sturdy thighs beneath metal greaves.

_Yeah, I can work with this_ , she thought, grinning to herself as the woman seemed to shiver under her gaze. She wasn’t gonna _do_ anything, obviously, she wasn’t an idiot. But it was nice to entertain the thought, at the very least. Besides, who was she if not a glutton for punishment?

“Don’t worry about it,” Beau told her, slowly uncrossing her arms, letting the gown fall lower down her chest until the fabric of the slip underneath began to peak through. She tried her best to hide her smile as the woman before her visibly swallowed. “That can take a beating, you know.” She said, jutting her chin at the case in the woman’s arms. “No need to be gentle.”

She could picture Jester facepalming so vividly at the line it was like she was in the room with them.

The woman blushed even redder and looked at the floor. “Noted, ma’am.” She said, placing it down and retreating to the hallway to collect the rest of Beau’s things. Pleased with herself, Beau returned to the ties of her gown. Old habits, what could she say.

“D’ya need anything else or…” The woman asked, a little faint of breath after a few minutes of shuffling cases over the threshold.

Beau briefly considered asking the woman to help unlace her dress, but thought better of it. Because honestly, she was smarter than seducing the first girl she laid eyes on not twenty minutes into moving into her husband’s estate on her damn wedding night. “Nope, all good here.”

The woman gave a quick nod. “Cool, cool, I’ll, uh, leave you to all that then.” She stood there for a second more before lumbering out the door, somewhat awkwardly, and closing it behind her.

Beau chuckled to herself at the sound of heavy footsteps descending down the hallway. It was almost worryingly easy to slip back into her same old routine. Especially considering… well, Beau didn’t really want to think about that right now. Maybe the situation hadn’t totally hit her yet. Maybe she was fine after all. Maybe she was just repressing shit again. Who’s to say?

For a while longer, Beau struggled at the laces at her back, only getting them more tangled in the process. Her arms began to ache from being held in that position too long, and she grinded down on her teeth in frustration. It was only after accidentally tightening the gown even tighter around her midsection that she finally gave up, letting out an aggravated cry and kicking her shoes off instead. They flung to the floor with an audible clunk and Beau threw herself with them, collapsing her face in her hands, a wave of the day’s exhaustion finally hitting her.

_Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’ve done nothing but sit in carriage all day,_ she scolded herself. _How are you seriously this tired?_

Beau felt like a child about to throw temper tantrum, whining about being too hungry, and too tired, and too cold, and too scared. It all seemed so juvenile, to throw her shoes across the room and drop to the floor in a fit of frustration because her stupid dress wouldn’t come undone. But it didn’t change the hot, itchy feeling in her eyes and throat and didn’t make her want to punch a hole in the window any less.

She took a shuddering breath, too tired to hold back the shaky sob that escaped her lips as soon as she exhaled. When no one came running, she did it again, and again, and again, hot tears smearing her makeup, tiny gasps of breath buried in her arm. Beau couldn’t remember the last time it felt so good to just cry.

By the time more footsteps began to sound from down the hallway, Beau was no longer crying but breathing, slow and deep, eyes gently closed and leaning against the four poster bed. Quickly, she sprang up from the ground, neatening the jewelry on the bed and grabbing her shoes from across the room. On the other side of the doorway, Beau could hear Jester’s unmistakable voice speaking to someone, too quiet for her to catch their exact words without eavesdropping.

Beau did not need to look in Lord Widogast’s dusty wardrobe mirror to know what a mess she looked like. She wiped her running nose with a knuckle and smoothed back what she could of her hair.

_No one gets to see me like this_ , she told herself, _No one gets the fucking satisfaction of seeing me weak._

A moment later, after a rhythmic knocking at the door, Beau gave Jester and a pair of crownsguard permission to enter the room.

“Beau!” Jester gasped upon seeing her disheveled state, rushing to her immediately. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine, Jess,” Beau replied, brushing off her concern, even though all she wanted was to break down again and tell Jester everything. “We can talk later. Why… why are they here?”

“Oh, um… okay.” Jester seemed to understand Beau’s discomfort, but to her credit did not pry any further. “So, basically, these guys told me to tell you that you can either take a bath and then have the examination, or have it now and take your bath later.” Jester said, looking at the pair for confirmation. “Lord Widogast is in his study right now, I think, but gave us permission to use his chambers. Besides, he technically isn’t allowed to see you naked and stuff, you know, before the consummation, technically, so he really can’t be here right now anyway.”

Oh right, that bullshit chastity test. She had almost forgotten.

Beau spoke to Jester, but looked at the crownsguard with a chill in her eyes usually reserved for her father. “And they know that, as my chief lady in waiting and a licensed medic, you’ll be the sole conductor of the examination?”

Jester nodded. “It’s all been cleared. They’re just here to watch.”

“Alright. Let’s get it over with then.”  

As Jester riffled through her satchel, pulling out a cheap linen sheet and laying it over Lord Widogast’s neatly made bed, Beau fiddled with the laces of her nightdress. She had read about these such fascicles of noble life, but from her understanding, virginity tests were quickly going out of fashion. Once upon a time, when the crown was more strict about who could inherit property, ensuring a woman’s chastity at the time of marriage was believed to affirm the paternity of any heirs. But now, it was only practiced by the most traditional families of the gentry, and completely unheard of for so called, “new money” bloodlines like the Lionetts. Beau had absolutely no idea what to expect.

Her gown was halfway unlaced when Jester piped up: “You can keep that on, I’m pretty sure. It’s your, you know, your _hhn, hhn, hhn,_ that matters.”

Beau smiled a little because it was so, inimitably Jester to use such playful, childish euphemisms even in regards to something like this. Now more than ever, she was unbelievably thankful to have her by her side. “Oh, yeah, sure.”

“Are you ready?” Jester asked, her voice suddenly soft, looking at Beau with warily with those impossibly violet eyes. Beau had known her lady in waiting long enough to read through intensity of her stare, to the truths and reassurance she was trying to communicate to her. Jester’s mindful, gentle gaze contained so much more than her three spoken words ever could.

“Yeah, I’m ready, Jess.” Beau replied earnestly. Even though, Gods, how could anyone be ready for something like this? She hadn’t been anything close to ready for anything that had happened in these past months, Jester saw that firsthand. But the conviction behind her reply was sincere. She had to be ready. There was nothing more to be done.

“Ohh-kay,” Jester said, slipping back into a lighter persona. “Lay on your back, right over here on this sheet, please.” She patted the space on the bed and Beau did as she told, reclining against the pillows and furs that had been propped up behind her head. She stared up at the folds of fabric draped above her head, suddenly very aware of the strong stench of cat that hung in the air of the chamber. It was more nauseating than Beau had remembered.

She felt the weight of the bed shift beneath her as Jester sat by her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, Beau noticed the two guards step back to stand sentinel at the door, probably trying to give the women some semblance of privacy.

Was there even such a thing anymore?

“Knees up,” Jester prompted, and once again Beau complied, pressing her bare feet into the mattress, her legs parting automatically. She could not help but blush as the material of her gown fell down her thighs and bunched up at her waist, rendering her smallclothes clad bottom half on display. It was stupid, Beau thought, because she wasn’t at all modest individual and Jester had seen her in much less loads of times before. But lying on a scratchy sheet on a foreign bed, being watched by strangers decked out in vermillion robes made her feel a little more than vulnerable.

She felt a hand on her knee and looked up to see Jester’s calm, freckled face looking back at her.

“I’m going to take off your smallclothes now, okay?” She informed her, her voice was even and reassuring. She stroked a thumb up and down Beau’s kneecap.

“O-Okay.” Beau said back, shivering a little as Jester carefully removed the flimsy piece of fabric, setting it beside her on the bed. With a gentle touch, Jester rolled up the edge of Beau’s nightgown just past her navel, exposing more and more of her body to the chilly air. She could feel goosebumps begin to break out across her skin.

“Beau?” Jester said, regarding Beau with that same intense look as before. “I want you to breathe for me, okay? This might hurt a little bit, maybe.” She reached out and gave Beau’s hand a quick squeeze. Beau hadn’t realized she had been clenching the sheets until Jester did so.

“Breathing, got it.” Beau said back, taking a measured breath from her diaphragm to demonstrate. She let go of the sheet balled in her fists to take Jester’s hand between both of hers, giving her friend a small smile. “Go for it.”

But Jester did not let go right away. She held her gaze and told her intently: “You have nothing to worry about, I promise,” and suddenly Beau understood.

Beauregard Lionett was no maid. Jester had ushered out enough young women from her lady’s bedchambers before daybreak and hidden enough soiled bed linens to be quite sure of the fact. And sure, no man had ever so much as laid a hand on her, but Beauregard was no fool, either. Any medical examination worth its salt would be able to tell that her walls had felt the stretch of more than a few clever fingers. There would be no bloodstains on her husband’s linens tonight. She knew that her lady in waiting had no deniability, medical or otherwise, to attest to. Jester was going to have to lie.

There was a difference between lying to your heart as you married a man you could never possibly love, and lying to the very nation that provided you asylum, risking your medical license and livelihood with a shaky signature on a roll of parchment. Granted, Beau didn’t know how the Empire would be able to find out such a thing, exactly, but was pretty sure the ins and outs didn’t matter if they suspected something damning.

Daughters of whores rarely left the brothels that birthed them, after all, and the few who did knew better than to tempt fate.

Beau listened, truly listened to her best friend’s words, words meant to reassure someone other than her. “I know, Jessie. I know.” She told her. “I trust you.”

Jester gave a small smile, a little weak, a little sad, maybe. “I trust you too.”

She released Beau’s hand, positioning herself more explicitly between her legs and Beau closed her eyes and braced herself.

It… it wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be.

There were no sharp instruments or stirrups, just Jester’s clinical touch and warm hands between her legs. But still, she winced as she parted her and as a pair of fingers probed and breached her dry entrance. Eventually, her walls stretched to accommodate the intrusion but not without a tight, bitter sting of protest. Beau bit her lip, again and then again, doing her best to provide an alternate outlet for her discomfort.

“Breathe.” Jester repeated, and Beau tried to release the tension that clung to her stiff body. With a deep breath, she let her vision go hazy, numbing herself to the insistent fingers poking at her center.

It was over within minutes.

“You’re all done!” Jester announced, shaking Beau from her pseudo dissociative state. “Totally, one hundred percent a virgin. Congratulations!”

Beau let a wave of relief wash over her, alleviating her discomfort. The bed shifted as Jester sprung off it and Beau heard the shuffling of papers and the chirp of conversation. She paid no attention. Instead, she closed her eyes and rolled over on her side, pressing her thighs together to muffle the soreness between her legs.

It was done. Now onto the next.

A few minutes later, Beau felt a hand on her side. She rolled over to see her lady’s maid standing over her, looking down at her attentively.

“How do you feel?” Jester asked, her voice small.

“Kind of a loaded question, don’t you think?” Beau replied, trying to sound as playful as she could. When Jester didn’t smile back, she corrected herself. “Tired, I guess. Could use a bath.”

_To like, wash away the humiliation, you know._

“You did a very good job, Beau.” Jester told her gently, rubbing Beau’s ribcage back and forth beneath her hand. Beau found herself relaxing into her touch, in spite of the circumstances. Somehow, Jester made even cold, dreary Blumenthal Manor a little less awful.

“Hey, Jessie?”

“Mmhm?”

“Wanna lie down with me? Just for a second?”

She watched Jester hesitate for a second, looking over at the guards still waiting by the door.

“Please?” Beau asked again, not even caring about the way her voice wavered.

“Aw, okay, okay,” Jester finally gave in, that warm, bright smile returning to her face, shoving at Beau’s rear playfully. “Scoot over, you.”

And Beau did as she was told, shifting over the fur comforter until she was in the middle of the bed. She let herself be rolled sideways as Jester hugged her from behind, wrapping her arms around Beau’s midsection, nuzzling her head against the back of her shoulder.

“Just for a second though,” Jester reminded, as Beau placed her hands over hers, snuggling closer against the curve of her body. “You do have a bath waiting for you, you know.”

Beau nodded, breathing in the conjoined scent of lavender and a cat fur. It was a little more tolerable now. “Just a second.”

If becoming the Baroness of Blumenthal Manor meant having to measure her happiness in seconds, Beau supposed that this moment, lying on a medical sheet ensconced in Jester’s arms, was as good as any to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to update, the rating of this work has changed. the content warnings vary from chapter to chapter, but i'd rather be safe than sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @technicolortidepods, if you feel so inclined


End file.
